


leather

by threadoflife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Gloves, Hand & Finger Kink, Leather Kink, Leather gloves, M/M, Motorcycles, biker John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 14:38:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11969454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: While tailing a suspect one night--a biker--Sherlock and John, dressed up in similar attire, happen upon something new: the fact that Sherlock has a (quite huge) thing for John in leather gloves.It goes downhill from there. Or uphill---depending on the perspective.John doesn't mind.





	leather

**Author's Note:**

> ... inspired by love-in-mind-palace's ramblings about john and... GLOVES.....
> 
> http://wssh-watson.tumblr.com/post/161550213512/wssh-watson-love-in-mind-palace
> 
> i mean come on this is hot af

There was always something.

Sherlock didn’t know how he had missed this completely: on the way to the H.O.U.N.D. case, he had driven the car himself. They’d had a brief discussion—John defensive, Sherlock disbelieving—about the fact that John didn’t know how to drive. He’d never needed to, he said. It’d come up briefly related to his military career but that hadn’t gone anywhere. John had ended the discussion (or rather, the interrogation, as John had deemed to call it) with a firm but threatening tone, one that had told Sherlock to leave it at that. He had.

And now, at the end of the current case, Sherlock was…. well, flabbergasted would be the correct word, quite. They’d chased a biker connected to an extremist network over the last couple days and had finally found the necessary piece of evidence. From his seat two tables further away in the bar, Sherlock had fairly vibrated with tension and success. He was glad about it, too; the investigation had required undercover work, and that had meant clothes suitable to their current surroundings. In leather trousers, a black shirt and biker boots, Sherlock felt itchy and silly. It wasn’t his favourite attire.

John, of course, was an entirely different affair.

It was quite difficult for Sherlock to keep his eyes on their suspect: John demanded that much of his focus, constantly distracting him. He’d put on more cologne to give off the air—quite literally—of someone too dependent on the stuff, making up for other, private shortcomings. (Of which none existed; but when undercover, details made for authenticity.) John’s natural self-confidence, played up a bit, fell in line with the man he played. That man wore dark, tight jeans, a rather loose grey shirt over which a leather vest was draped. Around the neck, Sherlock had insisted John wear an atrocious stainless steel necklace at the end of which a bullet hung. Atrocious, but fetching, indeed.

The leather gloves…. were John’s idea. There was no need to buy them. He’d fished them out of the depths from under his bed, where he kept stuff he didn’t like to part with in small boxes. There had been no time left for Sherlock to marvel at the fact that John possessed a pair of leather gloves; obviously worn around the edges, so fairly old, but authentic and of admirable quality.

Tailor made, possibly. They fit John like a second skin, providing a firm layer of leather that hugged his small hands and clever fingers in a somewhat… compact casing: John’s fingers, always a bit blunt, looked even blunter now. Where the leather closed in neat stitches around the tip of a finger, it wasn’t entirely round but just somewhat square, making the tips of John’s fingers look rougher. The moment John had put them on first, they’d creaked a bit; the sound had shot through Sherlock’s gut like an arrow. Unused for a long while but well worn, and fitting perfectly. It evoked, in an instant, the image of John in nothing but a tight shirt and loose jeans with those damned gloves on. It evoked the image of a rougher John: of a John he saw often post-case, in the sanctuary of their bedroom, when his eyes were dark and intense with desire, stormy blue; when his hands closed roughly around the back of Sherlock’s neck, pressing him further down as Sherlock sucked his cock harder, keeping him there to choke on it; of his uninhibited, clever mouth, whispering possessive filth into Sherlock’s ear as he had him bent over the table. It was a John Sherlock adored, adored very much; a John he coveted and forced out by exhibiting excessively posh and petulant behaviour, knowing exactly just how behaving like that type of man—like a posh, posh brat—made John want to take him down a peg or two. Preferably by shoving him to all fours.

The gloves had stolen Sherlock’s concentration all night: he’d fidgeted in his seat at times, gone out to smoke more often than strictly necessary, and before joining John at the table they’d made Sherlock adjust himself in his trousers. He’d played it off as a hypermasculine man rubbing his cock in public as a display of manly pride: here, peasants, behold this mighty specimen. He was undercover, after all. Besides the gloves, there had to be some perks to it.

How Sherlock had missed it, however, he didn’t know. He’d assumed John didn’t know how to drive any vehicle at all after Baskerville, and it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption to make. However, he clearly had to re-evaluate his deduction.

Their suspect had got wind of their following him and had made off quite cleverly through the backdoor, already on his motorcycle before Sherlock had had the chance to react. His reaction, then, had been impulsive and essentially stupid: he’d hurt his wrist on the way out in his haste, and even after he’d managed to… borrow… the key to another motorcycle, with his wrist damaged as it was he couldn’t drive it. He’d cursed, loudly and strongly. It’d take them days to find him again. This one was a particularly smart rat. His hole wouldn’t be easy to–

“Give me the key,” John had demanded then, brisk and sudden. “I’ll get him.”

“…. But you don’t,” Sherlock had started, head snapping around to stare at John in incredulity.

“Give me the key,” John had repeated. His hand was palm up, waiting. John’s face betrayed no expression except impatience; after a moment, Sherlock wordlessly handed the key over, eyebrows knitted and mouth pursed.

“Which one?” John asked, no-nonsense, and after Sherlock indicated the red one nearby, he gave a short nod.

When he then swung himself skillfully onto the seat of the motorcycle and got it going, Sherlock continued staring.

“Been a while,” John said over the noise of the engine, looking up at Sherlock. “Hop on, or do you want to lose him?”

He sat there on the motorcycle as if he’d done it before. His hands, his hands in the leather gloves, were wrapped loosely around the handles: they looked as if they belonged there. John, in biker clothes and leather gloves—his very own leather gloves—cut such a smooth, suave picture that, inexplicably, Sherlock had to swallow. He had to swallow hard.

“Hop on,” John repeated, now a bit impatiently, and Sherlock did, without a further word. The pieces of the puzzle came together gradually, in slow motion: as he stared at John’s gloved hands around the handles and the back of John’s head, pressing himself fully against John’s back while his arms settled tightly around John’s middle, Sherlock knew: John had driven before. Not any vehicle; motorcycles, to be precise. That was where his confidence came from, his sure handling of the motorcycle as they were speeding through the streets, and, of course, Sherlock thought, staring still, transfixed, at John’s hands: his leather gloves.

Neither of them spoke much except for necessary bits until they had their suspect chained to the ground and the sirens were already wailing their arrival.

They certainly did not speak about the fact that Sherlock had sat on the back of the motorcycle pressed to John fighting a raging, awful boner.

On the way home, Sherlock resolutely faced the window. Beside him, John was silent. There was no reason for him to be wearing the gloves any longer, but he kept them on. The inside of the cab was simmering with a quiet, intense sort of tension. The muscles of Sherlock’s thighs ached with it, shot through as they were with a molten kind of heat that pulsed in his useless, stupid groin. Because of a pair of gloves.

Because of John’s hands in those gloves.

They went up the stairs to 221b slowly: the tension was a quiet sort, a slow sort, thick and cloying. Sherlock entered first, then stood in the middle of the room staring at the mirror over the fireplace. His face was flushed, his eyes bright. His lower lip was noticeably red, a little swollen. He must have bitten it. He hadn’t noticed.

When the door fell shut behind him, softly, Sherlock closed his eyes.

“So,” John said, after a moment. His voice was light, nonchalant. “Leather gloves, is it?”

There was always something. Leather gloves, yes: John had them. Sherlock, apparently, had an interest in them—one that ran deep, one that was dirty, one that made his cock heavy and hard. Yes, Sherlock had an extensive, intense interest in John’s leather gloves.

One admitted to defeat in a certain manner: with grace; humbled. So Sherlock turned around, steeled himself for what he knew he would find—a dark, dangerous edge in John’s eyes—and after clearing his throat, said frankly, “Yes. It is.”

A slow smirk pulled John’s mouth to the side, a crooked, dark thing. “Well,” John said, licking his lips. “I can work with that.”

Sherlock could already taste the leather on his tongue.

 


End file.
